Imperfect Soldiers
by Jedi Buttercup
Summary: Crane held out a hand as the argument in the background finally broke up. "I am very glad to have met you, Captain Rogers."
1. Imperfect Soldiers

**Title**: Imperfect Soldiers

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

**Summary**: _Steve might not have jumped so quickly to suspicion if he hadn't recently met a pair of thousand year old princes who acted like spoiled teenagers, and fought against an entire army of creatures from outer space. But somehow, he didn't think this guy was just an Oxford Professor on loan to Sleepy Hollow._ 2100 words.

**Spoilers**: Mid-season for Sleepy Hollow; after Captain America (2011) and The Avengers (2012) but written long before Cap 2.

**Notes**: Originally posted elsewhere Dec 7, 2013. For maevebran, for Day 3 in Wishlist 2013, for the prompt: "Ichabod Crane and Steve Rogers having adventures coming to terms with the 21st Century." Title's a reference to a Captain America quote: "not a perfect soldier, but a good man". The story of the drunken fiddler is real, a folktale from Orkney thought by some to be Irving's inspiration for Rip Van Winkle.

* * *

"Captain, if I may ask a rather impertinent question..."

Steve glanced away from the brewing altercation between the SHIELD agents who'd accompanied the two available Avengers to Sleepy Hollow and the local police ranged behind their own Captain to take in the tall, solemn man at his side. The contrast between the official authorities' behavior and the politely formal man who'd claimed to be some sort of consultant specializing in Revolutionary War legends was sharp enough to make him feel more lenient than usual.

He'd been asked a _lot_ of impertinent things in the years since Dr. Erskine chose him to test the serum, after all, and not just since he woke up in the future. He doubted anything Mr. Crane might say could compare to the questions shouted at him every time he wore the uniform in public- never mind all the things SHIELD's doctors claimed to need to know in order to recreate Erskine's formula. How was it anyone's business but his own whether all that time spent on ice had affected his _fertility_?

"Ask away," he shrugged, shoulders shifting under the stiff material of his Captain America suit.

Crane frowned rather than looking pleased at that answer, though, and leaned slightly toward Steve as though he didn't want to be overheard. "When I asked Leftenant Mills about the source of your... notoriety," he said, glancing down briefly to take in the entire red, white and blue ensemble Steve was wearing, "she said that a soldier by the same name fought in, ah, the Second World War."

Steve raised an eyebrow at that. "That's right," he replied, cautiously.

"And that according to some sources on the... Internet, you are that same soldier, restored after a sleep of some seventy years," Crane continued.

It was Steve's turn now to look the other man over in more detail. A lot of things stood out, now that he was paying attention: the pause before the mention of the Second World War; the same pause before the mention of the Internet; the fact that he'd even had to ask Lieutenant Mills why Steve was famous; the antique look and hand-stitching of the coat and trousers he wore; the dated style of his hair and beard; and those _boots_. Where was the guy even _from_?

Steve might not have jumped so quickly to suspicion if he hadn't recently met a pair of thousand year old princes who acted like spoiled teenagers, and fought against an entire army of creatures from outer space. But somehow, he didn't think this guy was just an Oxford Professor on loan to Sleepy Hollow.

"And what does that have to do with your question?" he asked warily.

Crane's eyes settled on Steve's face, meeting his gaze with an intent, wry expression. "I was simply wondering how you coped with the adjustment. The changes in technology, the differences in culture; I am reminded of the old story about the drunken fiddler who played for the trows, and returned home to find that fifty years had passed and that he was a grandfather." One corner of his mouth turned down sharply as he spoke, and his body language visibly tensed; the subject obviously meant a lot to him.

"I hope you're not suggesting that _you're_ Captain America's grandson," he replied sharply. There were a lot of possible reasons for the man's behavior, ranging from him being crazy to Steve's club of one suddenly expanding to two; but he thought he'd get the most personally distasteful out of the way first. "Because I hate to break it to you, but that's not possible."

"More so than you know." The man didn't- quite- snort. "Although... I suppose it would be all of a piece, at this point, if the reverse turned out to be true. I don't suppose you have any Cranes in your family tree? Or... Van Tassels?" A strange, half-pained and half-hopeful expression crossed his face.

Almost as if... Huh. Option B it was, then.

But if it was true... how did SHIELD not know about the guy? Especially if, as Lieutenant Mills and Captain Irving had implied, he'd been helping them fight off a lot more of those revenant things over the last several months? Sleepy Hollow wasn't all that far from New York City; how had no one picked up on what was happening there until the latest magic-using super villain had gone looking for a particular object of power amongst the former Sheriff's possessions?

"Not that I know of," Steve shook his head, marveling. "Just so I'm clear here... how long were _you_ asleep?"

Crane gave him a tight, approving smile. "Miss Mills persists in rounding it to two hundred years; but the exact figure, I believe, is two hundred and thirty-two."

"_How_?" Steve asked. "Without some kind of... modifications, the human body's just not capable of surviving in stasis that long." It couldn't hurt to admit that much, even if the guy was playing a part for some reason; _no one_ had ever been able to successfully recreate the Super Soldier Serum, and it wasn't exactly a secret that the stuff existed in the first place.

Crane nodded toward the agents in black, still facing off with the Sleepy Hollow police. Mills, a young woman in a tan uniform with a very strong personality, was currently poking a finger at Sitwell's chest; a little farther back in the crowd, Steve could see Barton grinning as he watched them face off.

"There have always been secret organizations," Crane said vaguely, "and secrets within those secrets. I served on the front lines of the supernatural struggle underlying the Revolutionary War, and other agents linked my existence to that of the Horseman after we mortally wounded one another in battle. As I was frozen in slumber, and he could not die, we _both_ slept until he was awakened."

"That's... quite the story," Steve said. "Who found you? Why didn't anyone hear about this?"

"Perhaps because my name is not synonymous with patriotic heroism?" Crane shrugged, tone very dry. "George Washington recruited me, but I am not he. No one searched for _me_ for decades; those who cared knew exactly where I was, and had interest in my remaining so. And by the time I emerged from the cave where I had been preserved to encounter a fast-moving metal behemoth I had no frame of reference for... my name had faded from the pages of history, and the world had reduced my life's purpose to the status of legend. In fact... the first persons I tried to explain myself to believed me an insane murderer. I only stand before you now because Miss Mills decided to take a chance that I could lead her to the actual killer."

By which he meant the Headless Horseman: an actual, physical being _with no head_ who rode a red-eyed horse. Steve had seen it earlier, in company with the sorcerer they'd been sent to stop. It had reminded him uncomfortably of the Red Skull, who'd claimed repeatedly that he walked in the footsteps of gods before being destroyed by the very artefact Loki later used to trigger the attack on New York.

"You know..." Steve said slowly, deciding to take the chance. "They might have known exactly who I was when they woke _me_ up, but they didn't handle it much better. They set up a room meant to look exactly like the world I left behind, right down to the clothes and the baseball game on the radio, and put me there. They wanted to break it to me _gently_, as if I wouldn't notice all the little details they got wrong. As if people aren't people, whatever century they live in."

Crane glanced back at Mills then, and his smile grew more genuine. "An astute observation. I still struggle with the noise and the terminology and the... the _flimsiness_ people apparently put up with in the name of _convenience_. But I find that whatever the changes in the habits and beliefs and outward immodesty of those around me, their motives are generally quite familiar."

"Sounds like you've got a good friend there."

"Believe me, I'm well aware." Crane's smile faded then, and Steve felt a pang of recognition at the loss suddenly visible in his dark eyes. "I trust you do as well?"

What a lonely life that must be: only one person who even believed him, and _no one_ who remembered the world he'd come from. No wonder he'd reached out to Steve, hoping to find understanding.

"Working on it," he said. He didn't know that he'd call all of the Avengers or the SHIELD agents he worked with _friends_ yet, but they'd faced a lot of things together, and that was a start.

"You know, I should be asking how _you_ cope. You didn't even have electricity back then, did you? No cars, no television, not even radio or telephones or any of the stuff we couldn't do without in _my_ day. Everything's so much smaller and louder and more intrusive now, but at least I can guess half the time what something's supposed to do without being afraid I'll look like an idiot for asking."

"Every day does bring forth new conundrums," Crane admitted. "But I was a cryptographer, amongst other talents; I am quite adept at solving puzzles. And... Miss Mills decorated my room, those first few days, with numerous slips of sticky yellow paper with instructions written on them. Generally, a little experimentation and extrapolation allows me to interact with the objects around me without too much difficulty, though their inner workings still largely defy my understanding. Particularly those devices called computers: Miss Mills seemed to think that comparing one to a 'typewriter that remembers' would be helpful, and was quite surprised to find that 'typewriters' were after my time, as well."

He really did sound a _lot_ like the professor he claimed to be when he got going, Steve though with a wry smile, picturing Stark in Lieutenant Mills' place. He could easily imagine him doing much the same, only with some sort of computerized projections, if he and JARVIS had been involved in Steve's recovery from the start. Accelerating and compressing the culture shock, all at once. He'd have to mention it to him later, just to see his reaction.

"I did grow up with typewriters; but computers were barely coming into use on a governmental scale when I went into the ice," Steve admitted. "I wouldn't call them 'typewriters that remember'; more like 'typewriters that can _think_'. And the Internet? It's like..." He grasped for a comparison that would make sense to Crane. "A conversation around the campfire, only instantaneously connecting you to people on the other side of the _world_. It is a little alarming sometimes, especially since one of my teammates is... well I guess you wouldn't have any frame of reference for the name Tony Stark either, but he's pretty much at the forefront of modern technology. One of his computers can _talk_. Well enough that it's hard to distinguish from an actual person."

Crane looked alarmed at that. "And you're certain it's not possessed by a spirit?"

"Pretty sure, yeah." Unless there was a lot more to the Starks' story than he knew.

"The semblance of artificial life." Crane shook his head. "Another thing that it seems has not changed with time: the tendency of men to tread on the province of God."

"A lot of people don't even believe He exists anymore," Steve shrugged. "But then... they didn't believe in aliens before last year, either. Or things like what we fought today. Maybe they just need a reason."

"Faith is the evidence of things _unseen_," Crane quoted, in skeptical tones.

A lot of people had had faith in Steve, back before he was any kind of a hero; and given Crane's circumstances, he was willing to bet a lot of people had had faith in him, too. No one would tie their _worst_ agent's life to the continued existence of an immortal evil, after all, guaranteeing that _he'd_ be the only one left to pick up the fight if the evil ever returned.

"I guess we'll just have to carry that faith for them," he said.

Crane lifted an eyebrow at that, then nodded. "Well spoken," he replied.

Then he held out a hand as the argument in the background finally broke up. "I am very glad to have met you, Captain Rogers."

"Likewise," Steve said, and shook his hand. He would definitely have to keep in touch.

-x-


	2. Timely Correspondence

**Title:** Timely Correspondence

**Author:** Jedi Buttercup

**Rating:** T

**Disclaimer:** The words are mine; the worlds are not.

**Summary:** _The letters arrived every week like clockwork: heavy, old-fashioned unruled paper tucked into number ten envelopes. Careful, legible handwriting covered the pages in modern ballpoint ink, addressed to 'Captain Ichabod Crane, c/o Abigail Mills'._ 2000 words.

**Spoilers:** Late Season 1 for Sleepy Hollow; MCU pre-"Captain America: Winter Soldier"

**Notes:** For MaeveBran, who asked for: "More Temporally Displaced Americans. Maybe Crane finally putting things together and reacting to Steve being Captain America. (Frank Irving called Crane "Captain America" sarcastically towards the end of the Pilot)."

* * *

The letters arrived every week like clockwork. Heavy, old-fashioned unruled paper tucked into number ten envelopes; careful, legible handwriting covered the pages in modern ballpoint ink. They were addressed to "Captain Ichabod Crane, c/o Abigail Mills", a combination of title and address that would have told Abbie who the sender was even without the name above the return lines.

She smiled as she walked into the Armory and pulled the latest envelope out of her pocket; it was good to see Crane making friends outside their little apocalypse-fighting band. "Crane. You got mail," she said, waggling her eyebrows.

Ichabod looked up from the book he'd been steadily flipping through, tracing his finger over the pages. Probably a tossup whether he was actively researching, or just taking mental snapshots for future reference. She didn't even want to think what having a memory like his must be like; useful, yes, but kind of terrifying when she thought about it. Not being able to ever forget anything? There were things in even her imperfect recall that she'd consign to oblivion if she could, starting with the look on her sister's face the day she'd refused to back up Jenny's story about the demon to the cops, and more recently the sight of Sheriff Corbin's body after his fatal encounter with the Headless Horseman. How much worse must it be for him?

It was kind of a miracle, really, how excited her temporally dislocated partner could still get about the little things. Abbie watched his eyes light up and an anticipatory grin spread over his face, and folded away that look like an ember in her heart, stored up against the darker times that had plagued them before and doubtless would again before the prophesized tribulations were over.

"Another missive from the good Captain?" he asked, eagerly taking the letter and turning it over to break the seal. A quick tug freed the pages from inside; just a couple this time, but enough to show it wasn't just a perfunctory duty on his correspondent's part, either. Another thing Abbie couldn't help but marvel over.

"Indeed," she replied teasingly, borrowing his favorite acknowledgement. "I know you were worried after the news report this weekend, but it looks like he came through the incident in one piece."

He gave her a warmly admonishing look, then turned back to the pages. "I was not _worried_. I might not have understood Captain Irving's sarcastic reference to the man during our first case, but I have had ample opportunity to learn since. Captain Rogers is very capable, in fact a soldier of such skill that I need not blush at the comparison, and despite the rancorous tenor of the journalistic coverage of the Avengers' activities his teammates likewise appear to be intelligent, competent individuals. However..."

"However, he's your friend, and you were worried," Abbie cut him off with a casual wave. "Worry on; I get the feeling he could use a few more people concerned with his welfare anyway."

She was spitballing on that, really; what did _she_ know about Captain freaking America? But Ichabod had read quotes from his letters over the last few months, and she had her very own _slept through a bunch of decades_ soldier on hand to extrapolate from, so she was pretty sure she was in the right ballpark.

Ichabod nodded, though his eyebrows were still eloquent in their commentary. "There is a difference between the reliance and trust of those who have been through battle together, and the connection of personal friendship, and you are correct that he has yet to cross that gap with most of his modern compatriots. He is a more private man than I, however. I have not yet decided whether that is ultimately to his benefit, or mine."

"Don't ask me." Abbie raised her hands, palm out. "You remember the personal space conversation. But I don't think I could do this Witnessing thing with you if we weren't also friends."

"I feel much the same, Miss Mills." Ichabod smiled again, mostly in the eyes, then dropped his gaze back to the letter.

One of these days, she _would_ get him to call her Abbie when he wasn't on the verge of dying. She shook her head in fond amusement, then walked over to the lockbox that held Washington's Bible; there were some things she wanted to look up while they had a few minutes between cases. Whether the verses about the fates of the two witnesses, more than just their presence and the length of their tribulations, had been changed or expanded on in the Founding Father's version, for example. She wasn't all that keen about ending up martyred, even if the witnesses were supposed to be resurrected and yanked up to heaven afterward.

They had enough Terminator references in their lives already; why not one more? "No fate but what we make," she muttered to herself, flipping through the pages.

Ichabod looked up from his letter again at that, but didn't comment on it; instead, he made a considering noise, a line forming between his brows.

"Captain Rogers informs me that the cultural lesson of the week is 'grumpy cat', and he suggests that I apply to Captain Irving for an explanation." He glanced up at her, inquisitively. "The name bears a resemblance to the infuriated avians to which I was introduced by Miss Jenny; surely she would be a better source to approach?"

Just the _thought_ of Ichabod approaching Frank Irving on the subject of Grumpy Cat- as recommended by _Captain America_, who'd certainly seen the aggrieved side of the police captain's personality during the encounter between SHIELD, Sleepy Hollow's law enforcement, and the Headless Horseman a few months back- surprised a snort out of Abbie. She clapped a hand over her mouth for a moment to shield her smirk, then made a valiant attempt to even out her voice as she replied.

Captain America: kind of a brat, who knew?

"Ah- no. It's an Internet meme. Some guy posted a picture of his sister's cat to Reddit because it looked like it was frowning, the picture got made into an image macro with a bunch of grumpy captions, and... yeah, not enough 'no' in the world. I don't think either one would be amused by the comparison. I'll pull up the Wikipedia page for you later- or maybe just the Instagram; it's pretty self-explanatory."

"I'd appreciate that, as I understood only about half of _your_ attempt at an explanation, as per usual," Ichabod sighed, as ruffled as if he were Grumpy Cat himself.

Abbie valiantly held back a wave of giggles, then cleared her throat. "So what wonder of modern culture are you going to write back about _this_ week?"

He adopted a wry expression at that. "I originally intended to declaim my astonishment at the invention of Liquid Paper; if it had been possible to so easily erase one's mistakes with ink without scraping the page thin back in my day, letter writing would have been a far less daunting prospect. But Miss Jenny informed me that such correction fluid is already passé, and that indeed, it might prompt a hair color joke."

Abbie blinked at that. "I thought the Wite Out joke was about blondes...?" she asked.

Ichabod's lips thinned. "And it still is, in part. For how does one know that a blond has been at the computer?"

Okay; whatever, she'd play along. "There's Wite Out on the screen."

"And how does one know that a brunet has been using the same machine?" he continued with a resigned air.

"I don't know, how?"

"There is writing over the Wite Out," Ichabod concluded, a biting note in his voice.

Abbie had to laugh at that. "All right, all right. Probably not the most appropriate joke for a technology challenged brunet to share with a blond. So what did you pick instead?"

"It is difficult to find technological advancements to which he has not already been introduced by his teammates," he lamented. "Though rest assured, I will find something by the deadline for today's mail; most of the letter is already written. I require only a moment's inspiration."

She could see that; several sheets of paper already covered in Ichabod's old-timey script lay on the corner of the table. She didn't make an effort to read it, but one place name stood out right near the top: Dobbs Ferry. "Reassuring him you're still in one piece? I'm guessing he's heard about _our_ latest adventure by now."

Ichabod made a disgruntled face. "Very likely. I'm still not certain how I feel about the notion of a manmade being perusing my every move from the ether and reporting it, however friendly said being and said recipient might be. The invasion of privacy alone is alarming, never mind the potential for abuse and the theological implications."

"Shades of Skynet," Abbie said, shuddering. Then, off his querying look, she added, "Cultural reference again. We should definitely add the Terminator movies to your watch list, by the way. At least the first two; the message gets a little mixed after that. Even Christian Bale couldn't save the fourth one."

"I'll take your word for it," he said, skeptically. "Far be it from me to dispute the value of an actor's attractiveness in elevating a muddled plot to something worth the time it takes to view."

"What? Don't tell me you haven't watched your new friend's old propaganda movies yet. Because let me tell you, there is only _one_ reason to watch those things now, and the historical value isn't it."

"I'll have to take your word for that as well; he has most earnestly dissuaded me from looking them up on the You Tube."

Ichabod pronounced the website as though its name were two words, and still prefaced most internet references with an article, though Abbie knew damn well he knew better. But she humored his disapproving verbal tics just like she did his daily attempts to get in a quota of conversational sparring; it would be a little hypocritical of her to call him on it too often.

"All the more reason to do it," she grinned.

"Yes, well. Perhaps." He grinned back at her, then changed the subject, nodding to the file folder she'd brought. "So. What brings you to the Armory this early in the day? Another unusual investigation for the Sleepy Hollow police?"

"No flashburned corpses, creepy houses, or beheadings yet today," Abbie assured him. "I was looking into the Biblical verses about the Witnesses, actually. There's some interesting insertions in Washington's version. Here, take a look..."

Ichabod Crane may have dragged her neatly planned life royally off course- but he'd also saved her, in more ways than one, since they'd become partners. She was glad she'd taken a chance on him.

She wondered if there was anyone else out there who'd say the same for Ichabod's new friend. She hoped so; the world could be a pretty lonely place when you had no one to talk to about the things that mattered most.

Or even just the things that made you smile.

* * *

Two mornings later, a jogger in Washington DC stopped at his mailbox.

_"...We of course observed the practice of posting broadsides outside public establishments in my day advertising all manner of things, but nothing like these 'bill boards'. Their sheer size and ubiquity, never mind the breadth of subject matter, frequently astonishes me. I encountered one this week, for example, inviting passersby to a salon established for the sole purpose of something called 'eyebrow threading'. Miss Mills assures me that this is a legitimate and historically established grooming technique, particularly favored by ladies of Eastern heritage, but I would not have guessed without her explanation. The vagaries of modern toilette seem to be unending, as does the time and expense required to so indulge..."_

Steve grinned, then picked up a pen to reply before his morning meeting at SHIELD HQ.

-x-


	3. Different Ant, Same Old Boot

**Title**: Different Ant, Same Old Boot

**Author**: Jedi Buttercup

**Rating**: T

**Disclaimer**: The words are mine; the worlds are not.

**Summary**: _"You know, Steve mentioned you after his visit here," Nick replied. "He said a lot of things about kindred spirits and different fronts of the same fight. He didn't mention you were such a smart-ass."_ 3000 words.

**Spoilers**: Early Season 2 for Sleepy Hollow; MCU post-"Captain America: Winter Soldier"

**Notes**: For GrayCardinal, who asked for: "Nick Fury passes through Sleepy Hollow while living off the grid post-Winter Soldier, and gets caught in the crossfire of an encounter between Ichabod Crane and the Horseman." Warning for Fury's use of language. :)

* * *

One of the many situations that Nick Fury had been too busy to personally investigate as Director of SHIELD, yet hadn't dared delegate to anyone he didn't fully trust, had been the problem that was Sleepy Hollow, New York.

Specifically, the question of what in the _actual fuck_ was going on in the town. Most of the reports from the team who'd gone there to deny the villain of the week his weird artifact of choice had been very reserved and even dismissive about describing what they'd seen. Suspiciously so, considering that bizarre circumstances and enhanced foes were by no means an unusual job hazard for a SHIELD agent.

Or maybe not, considering that Sitwell had been along for the ride. Considering what Nick now knew about the man. Only a handful of agents had supported Barton's and Rogers' reports of the Headless Horseman and the other quote-unquote demons they'd encountered; Sitwell hadn't been one of them. And as for the rest... there'd been more than one veiled comment about Barton's possession-related PTSD and Rogers' adjustment issues after seventy years on ice. Nick wondered exactly what the record would show if he compared the names of the dissemblers against the list of SHIELD agents now known to've been HYDRA in sheep's clothing.

None of the reasons HYDRA might've had for discouraging SHIELD's interest could mean anything good for the rest of humanity. A review of the letters Rogers had been exchanging with one of the focal points of the disturbance had turned up mostly _more_ things to be alarmed about, rather than fewer. And to tie it all up with a bow, there'd been strange energy disturbances picked up by the satellites over the area right around the same time HYDRA had been co-opting the Insight helicarriers. So now that Nick was officially dead and free to go wherever he wanted, he'd put Sleepy Hollow near the top of the list of things to get a handle on in person before making any further recommendations.

He really hoped he didn't have to flag the place for Coulson. Phil and his team had more important things to worry about at the moment. And Heaven help them all if Rogers found out from his _penpal_ that the Avengers' first handler wasn't as dead as Fury had let them all believe. At least Rogers already knew about Nick.

He sighed, checking the GPS mounted on the dash again- he really missed his tricked out SUV sometimes; the commercially available shit was too damn limited- and took the next turn toward the abandoned church where everything had gone down. He had a file full of other addresses to check out afterward- most of them connected to the police lieutenant working with Rogers' friend, the supposed Oxford professor whose obviously faked records stank to high heaven- but he'd decided to start with the scene of the crime, as it were.

The old parish building had been partially recovered by the forest at some point, vines creeping up over white-painted woodwork and snaking into the bell-tower like some kind of oversized leafy octopus. Land records said there'd been a church there going back to colonial times, though it had burned down at least once in the past, and probably would again if left to rot much longer. The metal sign post out front had been knocked down, the sign itself long since stolen by some vandal or other. Nick parked the nondescript old truck he was driving just off the road and sat a moment in the driver's seat, just taking in the scenery.

It had been long enough since the incident that any sign of his people's presence was probably long gone; Nick didn't know exactly what he was expecting to find there. Hoofprints charred into the earth that smelled of sulfur, perhaps? He didn't think anything would surprise him, anymore.

Nick chuckled at the mental image of the look on Rogers' face if he hunted him down to fork back over that ten dollar bill, then got out of the truck, double-checking his holster and retrieving a flashlight from the glovebox. It wasn't quite dark yet, but there was no sense taunting fate any further than he was already.

Up close, the church still looked just as abandoned as it had from the truck, if in suspiciously good shape for a long-unused building. There were no obvious signs of recent disturbance; no strange scents, no strange noises. He circled around to the graveyard where the actual scuffle had taken place; nothing seemed out of place there either, just rank upon rank of grey stones, most so weathered that the names and dates were no longer legible. As anonymous as the Tomb of the Unknown in the cemetery where Nick's own empty grave now rested.

He shook his head at the thought, then circled back around to the front, frowning at the muted sound of another pair of feet crunching over gravel half-buried in leaf mould. He hadn't brought anyone along, and he hadn't heard any other vehicles arrive, so whoever'd followed him there probably wasn't a friend. But he hadn't heard any hoofbeats either, so whoever it was probably wasn't the so-called Horseman. Must be a local, then.

Nick drew his sidearm anyway, pairing it with the flashlight in the dim light of dusk, and sidled up to the building as he took a glance around the corner. He might be a skeptic, but he was fully aware of the universe's penchant for irony.

A quick visual sweep of the front of the church revealed a lone guy in a jacket even more dated than Nick's Salvation Army wear by at least a couple of centuries. Nick was no sartorial expert, but the lack of zipper, the dual rows of big round buttons marching up the front, and the ties on the shirt underneath were straight out of a history textbook. Either a lost cosplayer had just so happened to choose that exact moment to scope the windows of Nick's truck, or Nick had coincidentally managed to stumble across Rogers' friend on his first stop.

Taunting fate, right. Nick snorted, then reholstered his weapon and stepped out from the lengthening shadow of the church.

"Ichabod Crane?" he asked, announcing his presence.

Crane had already half-turned before Nick even spoke. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Nick, flickering over his jeans, hoodie, and jacket in quick order, then lingered on the flashlight in his hand and the holster at his hip before returning to his face.

"I am he," the man replied, tone crisply confident and a little wry. "And you are Nicholas Fury, former Director of SHIELD. I seem to be making a habit of encountering men who are known to have expired and yet remain among the living. Do you think it might be catching?"

Mind as sharp as his ears; the letters hadn't exaggerated. "You know, Steve mentioned you after his visit here," Nick replied in kind as he closed the distance between them. "He said a lot of things about kindred spirits and different fronts of the same fight. He didn't mention you were such a smart-ass."

Amusement kindled in Crane's expression. "Your generation was not the first to invent sarcasm, Director. Nor was Captain Rogers'. As I am certain you are well aware."

"You talk that way to that friend of yours in the Sheriff's department?" Nick parried.

"Lieutenant Mills would think me ailing should I ever blunt my tongue," Crane smirked, linking his hands behind his back as Nick stopped an arm's-length away. His posture was almost military, but his attitude anything _but_ reacting to Nick as a senior officer. "Particularly in circumstances such as these. She has a theory about the aggregation of oddity; the second law of thermodynamics as applied to the metaphysical. I begin to believe she may have a point."

"Is that a hint that I should get around to stating mine?" Nick snorted. "Where _is_ Lieutenant Mills, by the way? I was under the impression that the pair of you were more or less joined at the hip."

Crane's lips thinned, smirk fading under the weight of more bitter emotion. "Doing her job, as it happens. The new Sheriff is... somewhat less than convinced of the necessity of employing a 'history consultant' to assist with local policework. I decided to pass the time by exploring a few leads of my own. What is _your_ purpose here, Director Fury?"

"To convince _myself_ whether or not the situation here supports the story Captain Rogers brought back to SHIELD, as it happens," Nick inclined his head to the man. "You have to admit, it's a pretty tall tale."

"Taller still, I imagine, since one of our chief allies has been sidelined to a psychiatric hospital," Crane replied, gaze shrewd. "Though in all fairness, you must admit in return that I have reason to be less than forthcoming with my answers. The good Captain informed me that my own name, and that of the Lieutenant, were among those to be targeted by HYDRA's acquisition of advanced weaponry you yourself commissioned. What assurances do I have that confirming the truth to you now would not simply add to the threats at our door?"

"And what assurances do _I_ have that you aren't pulling some kind of scam on Rogers?" Nick shook his head. "I don't much give a damn whether or not every detail of your story is correct, Crane, regardless of how curious I might be; what I care about is whether there's a threat here that needs to be dealt with."

"Touché," Crane acknowledged, grudgingly. He seemed hesitant to say any more, though, which seemed out of character from Rogers' reports of him. "And if the veracity of the threat were proved to your satisfaction?"

"I suppose that depends on just how outgunned you are here," Nick suggested carefully, watching Crane's reaction. "Might be as little as an eyes-only file for the next agent unlucky enough to visit Sleepy Hollow on business. Might be as much as calling up a certain apocalyptic response team. Might be better if _you_ helped me get a gauge on the scale of said threat."

"The word 'apocalyptic' is not entirely out of place," Crane admitted, a wry twist to his mouth. "One might even characterize recent events as... Biblical in scale. Had we been less pressed for time when we were informed of the imminent arrival of the Horseman of War, believe me, the intervention of your 'response team' would have been very welcome. But as it was, we were able to delay Moloch's rise for a time... and circumstances have since become a great deal more complicated."

Of all the alarming hints buried in that statement, one in particular stood out. "The Horseman of _War_? There's two of them now?"

What were the odds that War's arrival just so happened to coincide with the emergence of HYDRA?

A sudden, echoing whinny sounded behind him, as if in answer to both questions... and Nick abruptly noticed that the shadows around them had deepened and merged as they spoke, night falling as the sun slipped below the horizon.

Crane tensed, gaze snapping immediately to the forest on the far side of the church as he drew a pistol that had been hidden beneath his jacket. "Yes, there are. I suggest you conceal yourself within the truck, Director. They may not yet be aware of your presence."

"Like _hell_ I will," Nick replied. He was starting to wish he'd brought Phil's godkicker along, rather than a more ordinary sidearm. "These things susceptible to bullets, then?"

Crane threw him a dismissive glance. "I doubt they intend to kill me; their master has other plans for Miss Mills and I at present. But they have no reason to spare anyone else, and I have very little desire to find myself explaining to Captain Rogers how _you_ ended up in Purgatory after a visit to my town."

Given a choice, Nick would just as soon fire an RPG at the fuckers; but he didn't happen to have one on him, and Crane did in fact have a point.

"You'd better not be bullshitting me. I have even _less_ desire to explain to Captain America how I sat by and watched while his bestie got beheaded," he warned as he backed off and unlocked the truck. The window was one of the old-fashioned hand-cranked kind; he climbed inside, then quickly eased it down, slumping to where he could watch what was going on outside with gun in hand without exposing himself to view.

Despite his apparent bravado, Crane wasn't just standing there waiting; he'd retreated to the front of the church for whatever cover the ivy climbing the corner of the building might give him.

A moment later, a horse with glowing red eyes came thundering through the gloom, and Nick swore pungently under his breath. Its rider wore a uniform at least as old as Crane's outfit... and was, in fact, missing its head. Nick could see its spinal column shining dimly in the last reflected light of the sunset. But it was still moving, arms gripping the reins as it pulled up near Crane's position.

A literal Headless Horseman. What in the _actual fuck_.

...Well. He supposed that answered _that_ question.

It didn't say anything. Naturally. Instead, it slipped a hand into a pocket and cast something in Crane's direction: a flutter of black cloth, edged with what looked like lace. It looked like something that might have been torn from Natasha's undercover wardrobe, after she'd kicked her heels off and gone to town.

Crane snarled, hand twitching as though he wanted to pick it up, but he held his ground, lifting his pistol to point at the Horseman. "She was never yours; and she never will be, no matter how long you hold her," he intoned, somehow giving the impression of staring down his opponent despite the fact that it didn't even have eyes.

It gave a contemptuous shrug of its shoulder in response as it wheeled its horse around; then it paused, turning back toward the truck. It hesitated just long enough to make Nick start to wonder if it realized he was there, then kicked its heels and rode off into the brush back in the direction from which it had come.

Silence reigned for a moment as Crane watched it go. Then he stooped to grab the discarded token, shaking with suppressed emotion.

"So," Nick said dryly, climbing out of the truck again. "You were saying. Complications?"

Crane took a deep, calming breath, then threw a glare in his direction. "One might say that."

"I gather that piece of frill doesn't belong to Lieutenant Mills."

"My wife, in fact." Crane unwrapped the knotted fabric with a degree of care belying the biting tone of his words. "The Horseman holds her captive."

Crane's _dead_ wife? Nick stared, then decided he really, really didn't need to know. "That why you're not so keen on an intervention?"

The cloth fell away from something that looked a lot like a shackle, a little rusty but otherwise clean. A pretty unambiguous message, as such things went. Crane clearly realized as much; he looked nearly ready to boil over- but there was a distinct note of worry underneath the indignation. He stared at the thing a moment, then rewrapped it to shove into a pocket and turned back toward Nick.

"It is one part of my concerns, yes. But not the whole. The fact is, it is less than clear whether anyone _but_ the prophesied Witnesses can defeat the Horsemen and their master; everyone else drawn into our fight has suffered for it, one way or another, no matter how well-prepared."

God save him from would-be heroes with a self-martyring complex. Nick narrowed his eyes. "And would you say the same thing to Rogers, if he were here?"

"I would," Crane assured him, lifting his chin.

"You think he'd listen?" Nick prodded further.

"I think that he has vital tasks of his own to complete, and would trust me to ask for help when I had need," Crane replied.

Nick snorted. "Unless you've only got half the story. I don't like this other Horseman showing up, never mind the _complications_, pretty much the same time HYDRA takes down SHIELD. Apocalypse generally means a _world_ ending event, you realize, not just one little corner of New York."

"You believe the two are related?"

Different ant, same old boot. One day, people would learn to stop threatening his world with War. Until then, Nick was just going to have to keep making his point until it sank in.

"I think it would be a bigger coincidence if they _weren't_. Don't you?"

"Perhaps," Crane finally agreed. "Though... I think it might be best to wait to continue this conversation until we can involve Lieutenant Mills. She has had much to say on the subject of weaknesses, and the Horsemen's ability to target them, as well."

"And I think that might be the first _actually_ intelligent thing I've heard you say," Nick shook his head. "Where to, then? If I recall correctly from the maps, it's a few miles either to Mills' place, or that cabin up by the lake her mentor owned."

Craine raised his eyebrows. "I think I begin to understand the mixed reports of you I have received. The cabin; Miss Mills will know where to find me once her work has concluded for the day."

"Going to spring me on her as a surprise?"

"As entertaining as that might be, I rather thought I would text her a warning en route." Crane produced a smartphone from his pocket, then... which somehow managed to be the most incongruous thing Nick had seen all day.

Nick bit off a laugh, then gestured to the truck.

"C'mon, then. I've got a GPS, but its directions are for shit."

-x-


End file.
